Friends of a Friend
by Stormcrown201
Summary: Or, the one in which Varric is confronted with the fact that ignoring letters from a useful ally is not how one goes about doing politics, nor is turning said ally into a villain in his book, neglecting to inform him of certain important events, and treating him with uncalled-for derision and contempt any way to treat the man who Hawke once called his best friend.


**Author's Note:** I'm one of those people who doesn't like how Sebastian's treated in DA:I, especially _Trespasser_, and how it's basically played for laughs. I'm aware that the two are cordial to each other in _Knight Errant_, but even so, in my view, Varric holds a very petty grudge against Sebastian for no good reason, and no one ever calls him on it. I wrote this to work out my frustrations. Be warned, there is a lot of ranting, and this is not the most Varric-friendly story in the world.

Enjoy! If you like it, please leave kudos and/or a comment. I'm also always open to constructive criticism!

* * *

Fenris never used to have to knock on the door to the Viscount's study. There was a time when he could and would have entered without invitation, but—well, that time is long past. No use dwelling on it when tonight, he has to play _messenger boy_.

_Ridiculous, all of it,_ he seethes as he knocks and waits for an answer, ignoring the lack of guards at the door. It's no surprise to him that the new Viscount is so lackadaisical with his security, but that's no concern of his. _Needing a grown man to act as a messenger because another grown man can't be bothered to even _read_ his letters. Wonderful._ Of course, there is no blame on Sebastian; he has simply become desperate and frustrated, which is to be expected after nearly a year of silence. Varric, on the other hand…

The door opens, and Fenris bows his head once at the sight of Seneschal Bran. "Serah Fenris?" he says, his eyebrows bouncing. "We were not expecting to see you at such a late hour."

"I have an important message for the Viscount," Fenris says, tone as stiff as it ever was, and Bran's eyebrows bounce again. No doubt, he also recognises the absurdity of Fenris, of all people, being a messenger. To the man's credit, however, he only holds out his hand for the letter. Fenris gives it to him and leans against the doorframe as Bran steps back into the room. He does not intend to leave until Varric has read the letter.

"Who's it from, Bran?" he can hear Varric saying, and there's that edge of childish frustration that Fenris, who is not in a charitable mood tonight, attributes more to resentment of his responsibilities than to tiredness and a desire to rest after a long day's work. He grinds his teeth and inhales deeply, but it does little to calm the mounting anger within him.

After a moment, he hears Bran respond, "It's from the Prince of Starkhaven, again, Your Excellency." His tone is _also_ recognisable: resignation this time, preparation for the inevitable. Fenris pushes off the doorframe and prepares to enter.

"Seriously? _Again?_" Varric says, and the exasperation now in his voice only feeds into Fenris' anger and hits his already frayed nerves. His jaw ought to break from how hard he's clenching it now, and his fingernails dig into his palms at his sides. It is not a fury he can disconnect himself from; it is too personal, and if nothing else, there is already too much between him and Varric. For the time being, it must control him. "Well, put it aside, with all the others," Varric continues, as Fenris knew he would, but it is not the words so much as it is the tone of casual indifference there that truly sparks the fire.

"Your Excellency—" Bran says, but before he can continue, Fenris storms into the room, snatches the letter back from him while ignoring his protestations, crosses the remaining distance to the Viscount's desk, and slams his hands down on it while looking daggers at Varric. Varric's eyes go wide, in return, and he shrinks back as far as he can in his chair.

"_Read it,_" Fenris hisses.

"Fenris, I—" Varric stammers. "What's this about?"

"The _letter_, Varric! _Read it!_"

"Oh, come on, Fenris," Varric says, regaining some of his nerve and spreading his hands in a dismissive gesture that Fenris knows all too well. He can feel his mouth twist into a snarl, but it does nothing to deter the dwarf. "I don't think it's any business of yours to charge in here so late at night and tell me which of my letters I should or should not be reading, now do you?"

"_Read it, Varric!_" Fenris' voice rises to a shout. His blood is pounding behind his temples, surging through his veins; his markings flicker in protest, and he has to fight to keep them from igniting. "It's an important message, so do Sebastian the decency of _reading_ it!"

Varric raises his hands in protest. "You know I don't like Sebastian, Fenris," he says. "Why should I bother with—"

This time, Fenris cannot keep his markings from igniting, not that he much cares. While Varric almost visibly jumps about a foot in the air and tries to scramble out of his seat, he tears around the table and slams his hand into the dwarf's shoulder, pinning him where he sits.

"Serah Fenris, if you do not let go of him, I will call the guard and have them escort you out of here," Bran shouts over Varric's startled gasp. Though he tries to grab Fenris' shoulder, Fenris shakes himself free in time and turns his glare from Varric to him. When their eyes lock, Bran shrinks away, eyes widening and face paling.

"I would like to see them _try_," Fenris says, his voice now dangerously soft. He looks back at Varric, who is just as ashen-faced. "Leave us, Cavin. I require a… _discussion_ with the Viscount. If his answers are to my satisfaction, when you return, he may even be in one piece." Varric quavers, and out of the corner of his eye, Fenris can see Bran opening his mouth to protest—and then closing it again. For a moment, he remains still, then he shakes his head and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, and Fenris suspects that he will not be back with the guards.

"Shit," Varric gasps. Their eyes lock again. "Dammit, Fenris, let _go_ of me!" After a moment's consideration, Fenris does so, and Varric groans and rubs his shoulder. "What was _that_ for?" he asks, and he tries to return Fenris' glare in kind, but its effectiveness is limited.

Fenris pulls back and steps away, eyes never leaving Varric's. "You are _pathetic_," he says. "Ignoring Sebastian's letters like this. Do you really think this is how one goes about doing politics?"

Varric shakes his head, growing bolder with his refusal to listen to reason, as he always does—as people like him ever do. "I have nothing to say to him. It's for the best that we don't communicate," he says, and he all but sticks his nose in the air.

"Not for Kirkwall, it isn't," Fenris snaps. He pulls another sheet of parchment out of his pocket and shoves it into Varric's hands. "This is a record of how much aid Sebastian has tried to send to Kirkwall over the past year. Most of it got through, but only by _Cavin's_ intervention. The rest was denied and sent back to Starkhaven. Do you want to guess why?"

But Varric does not answer him, instead reading over the parchment. "I didn't even know about half of this stuff," he says.

Fenris shakes his head and rubs his forehead. "You wouldn't have. Because you _never read_ his letters. He _tried_ to tell you he wanted to help Kirkwall, but you ignored him, and so at least a _third_ of the aid he sent never reached the city! And at least half of that was meant for the alienage, which is in the same sorry state it was in the last time I was here!"

"Fenris, I know Kirkwall's still rebuilding, but we're doing just fine without his help," Varric says snottily. "We don't _need_ it."

"You don't—" Fenris stops himself, shaking his head again and staring at Varric. "_Kaffas._ You're, what, forty-five, Varric? Yet you act like a _child_. All that's missing is you stamping your foot on the floor." The look that Varric gives him suggests he doesn't find that very funny, not that Fenris much cares.

He turns away, almost panting, then looks back at Varric. "And do you really think Kirkwall is doing fine?" he asks, acid lacing his tone. "Truly? Where's the evidence? It's as poor and deprived today as it was a decade ago. The alienage is in the same miserable state as it always was. You _still_ haven't struck down the laws forbidding elves from carrying weapons. Aveline is as incompetent at investigating crimes as ever. Reconstruction hasn't even started in half of Hightown, Lowtown, _and_ the harbour. What remains of Darktown is filled with yet _more_ homeless. And the nobles remain fat and lazy, concerned only with their petty needs. Encouraged by their _illustrious Viscount_, who ignores letters from important allies and gives away public buildings by _gambling them away!_" Fenris almost spits the last words out. "Your beloved city is a wretched mess, as ever, one I'm glad to have left behind me. Maybe it'll always _be_ that way, but the least you could do is _try_ to make it better, beyond sponsoring rebuilding projects. Or do you think that's all that goes into being a Viscount?"

Once again, Varric raises his hands. "I didn't ask for this job, Fenris. I'm doing the best I can with what I have."

Fenris snorts and folds his arms. "_Artur_ didn't ask for it, either. But _he_ treated it seriously. I suspect he did more in eight months than you have in, what, two years?"

"Don't you bring Hawke into this—" Varric snaps, and Fenris whips around to meet his glare with one of his own. His markings flicker in protest again.

"The _nerve_ of you to tell me what I can and cannot bring him into," he says, voice dangerously soft again. He rubs the red cloth around his wrist: a token that is now a memento of happier, long-gone times. "Besides, he was your predecessor. It's only reasonable for me to compare you with him, and suffice it to say, I don't think he would be any happier with what you're doing here than I am."

Varric shakes his head and looks back at the desk, relaxing into his chair, though even from here, Fenris can see how tense he is. "Then he should have stayed, or…" He trails off, face falling, not that Fenris needs that clue to work out what Varric was about to say. On that, at least, they can be agreed, even if Artur could never have stayed in Kirkwall without the templars coming after him.

But thinking of Artur reminds Fenris why he's here. He clutches the letter tightly in his hands. After a long silence, in which Varric pointedly does not address his concerns, he sighs. "I won't press you any further on your behaviour as Viscount. Far be it from me to dictate how you rule this city, no matter how incompetent you are. I'm just here on account of Sebastian."

"I've already told you, I'm _not_ going to write to him. Even if it is good politics or whatever—"

Fenris clenches his fists. "It is at that. Even magisters write to their rivals when they have legitimate business, Varric! They don't just ignore each other when they're not trying to kill each other! But I was thinking more along the lines of _common decency_, which I thought you appreciated."

"Some people just don't get along," Varric protests. "You of all people should know that, elf. Like I said, it's probably for the best that we don't—"

"_Vishante kaffas!_" The words come out as sharp as a whip, and though Varric has no idea what they mean (he thinks), he still falls silent. Fenris turns back to him, glaring once again. "Sebastian has done nothing to you, Varric. You, however, have been nothing but hostile to him since virtually the day you met. _Why_—"

Varric raises an eyebrow. "Says the man who has been nothing but hostile to Daisy since virtually the day you met her."

Fenris blows out a breath through his nose and forges on. "The way I've behaved changes nothing about the way you've behaved, nor does it bar me from _criticising_ your behaviour. And in _my_ case, I had good reason not to be friendly with a blood mage who lived in the alienage and talked about the plight of the city elves but preferred to play with a corrupted mirror and consort with demons rather than do anything to help her neighbours! But in yours? Sebastian has always been kind to you. How have you repaid him? At first, with derision, purely because he wasn't an interesting enough _character_ for your tastes—as if a pettier reason could possibly exist, as if there was not something wrong with _you_ for judging people's worth on how interesting they would be as _characters_." He snorts, and the brief contortion in Varric's expression that disappears as fast as it came only confirms that his suspicion is far from unfounded. "In stories that are altogether lacking in quality, by the way—not that that matters."

Varric's face contorts again, this time with outrage, and Fenris laughs darkly. "What? You thought everyone worshipped at the altar of your fiction? _Hardly._ Even your _Hard in Hightown_… I've read better, though I must say that your choice of villain rather overshadowed what few merits it had. _Wael_ of _Starkhaven?_" He shakes his head, glowering at Varric again as he remembers the look on Sebastian's face when he'd told him of the parallels. He'd tried so hard to appear amused, above Varric's petty spite, but Fenris had been able to tell that he'd been hurt, and even years later, the memory of that infuriates him.

"What right did you have?" he says, voice low and soft again. "He was kind to you and Artur's most loyal friend, and you repaid him not just with derision, but with making him a villain in your book, and then with the way you behaved after Adamant—" His voice rapidly starts rising again, and Varric stiffens in his seat.

"You might want to _enlighten_ me on that, Fenris," he says, voice rigid with anger. "As I recall—or not, I guess—I spent most of that time completely shitfaced."

"Don't play the fool!" Fenris shouts. "You sent letters to everyone _but_ Sebastian! He had to find out what had happened from me—_days before his wedding!_ The wedding Artur was supposed to attend! Two months after Adamant! Do you not see how petty it is to leave a man in the dark regarding his _best friend's death_? Do you realise you all but _ruined_ his wedding?"

Varric spreads his hands again, dismissively, and at the sight of it, Fenris half-considers grabbing him and shaking him. _How_ can he not see? "Isn't that a bit much?" he says. "You're accusing me of ruining his wedding, but I wasn't even there—"

"I shouldn't have to spoon-feed you the explanations, Varric!" Fenris snaps, rubbing his forehead again in a vain attempt to fight off his oncoming headache. "Sebastian had about _four days_ to mourn and process the shock when he should have had eight weeks! Try to imagine how he was throughout the ceremony, if you will, when, though he tried as he might, he could not stop thinking of the friend he had lost." A pause, and the memory flickers through Fenris' mind, and he grimaces. Suffice it to say, Sebastian had been almost in tears throughout the event. If it had been up to him, he would have postponed the wedding so he might have time to grieve, but by the time he had found out what had happened, it had been far too late. The one silver lining in the entire mess was that his bride had been perfectly understanding.

To his credit, Varric also grimaces, but he offers no apology, not that Fenris was expecting one. "And of course, it didn't help that his wife is a relative of the Trevelyans. She's a cousin, I think, of the same woman who…" Here he trails off because even after three years, it remains difficult to speak the words, to talk so openly of what happened, of the death of his love and the future he'd planned to share with him. It is a wound that time has let scab over, but the pain of it still threatens to strangle him some days.

He runs a hand over his face, breathing heavily, refusing to show his sudden vulnerability to the man who he cannot for the moment regard as his friend. "Well, I'm sure you can imagine how awkward it was for him to face House Trevelyan at his wedding. The point is, you sent Sebastian no letter, and so when his wedding came—and he'd been looking _forward_ to it—he'd had no time to process the news, to come to grips with his loss. _Another_ loss, Varric! This time, the closest friend he had! Did you not think about how that might affect him?" Despite himself, his voice cracks slightly, and he swallows. "But even though he knew the fault was yours for not sending him a letter, he _still_ tried to reach out to you. He wanted to console you, to bond with you. He wanted that for us _all_, after we lost the one thing that held us together! But what did you do? You ignored him! And what did you do when you returned here and hosted the memorial? You—_again_—didn't bother to send him an invitation! He would have been excluded by you and your petty grudge from the closest thing to a _funeral_ we were able to hold for his _best friend_—if _I_ hadn't told him—_again!_"

Fenris begins to pace. His blood pumps hot through his veins, his fingers tremble, and his markings flash with his fury on his friend's behalf. He does not even bother to mention the stress Varric's behaviour has caused _him_, and he is the one who lost the most, save for Carver. "It didn't take much effort to work out you were the culprit. But he kept trying to reach out to you anyway, and he _keeps_ trying. Year after year! I'm not sure if I should admire his stubbornness or tell him to quit while he's ahead! Except I can't tell him to _quit_, because you're both rulers now, and he can't give up on Kirkwall—he _won't_—just because the Viscount is an overgrown child giving him the silent treatment for no other reason than his dislike."

A long silence ensues, and Fenris is almost glad of it. He steps away again, turning his back on Varric, rubbing his temples with his fingers and letting his shoulders sag as he tries to comprehend how it came to this. He and Varric had been friends, once, but now, here they stand, at utter cross-purposes, and all for Varric's pettiness towards a man who has lost so much. That Sebastian has persisted with Varric speaks well of his character, but it should not have been necessary. Inevitably, Fenris wonders what Artur would have made of this, but he does not need long to think.

Artur would have _hated_ this. Even now, Fenris can visualise his face, the look of mingled disappointment and sadness and frustration he would have borne—on Sebastian's behalf. No terrible jokes here; he would have exerted every effort to bring Varric around, to see them united, and Fenris knows he would want him to do the same in his absence.

And as much as Fenris wants to scream at Artur's ghost still for leaving him to go on his suicide run, for lying to him and abandoning him for the sake of his conscience and his guilt (even if Artur wasn't in his right mind at the time), he finds he can't deny him this. With what Sebastian has to tell Varric now, Varric's spite towards him is now far more than an annoyance: it is an insult to Artur's memory.

_Watch me, my love,_ he thinks, and he tries to imagine Artur's arms around him, holding him—relaxed, but always careful and gentle. He succeeds, and he bows his head at the memory of it, the old pain swamping him again. Worse, in many ways, than that of the markings. _I'll either bring him around, or I'll burn this bridge. You wouldn't want _that_, either, but I have had more than I can take._

"I don't understand it," he says. His voice is now quiet and low, but with no danger, only exhaustion. "_Why_ do you dislike him so much? That he is not 'interesting' enough, that he is allegedly too kind to be real, makes you petty beyond all belief, and I would have thought you better than that. Is there something else that I'm not aware of?" When Varric doesn't answer—apparently struck speechless for once, though Fenris isn't sure if that's a good thing or not—he sighs, and he allows his mind to wander into speculation. As he ponders the possibilities, he gives voice to them.

"I'd have thought you would have liked him. He's like you. A younger son denied the things he wanted, difficult relationships with his family—" Varric opens his mouth to protest, no doubt disliking either the comparison or the way Fenris is talking about his personal life, but Fenris ploughs on. "So much expected of him, but never expected to be in charge or to receive any real attention. Never allowed to live the life he wanted, purely by outside circumstances. You can't deny the similarities. I'd have thought you would have _sympathised_… then again, you didn't sympathise with Carver much, did you, when he was lost and trying to find his own way, his own place outside of Artur's shadow? You flat-out told him once that he wasn't _interesting_. What a cruel thing to say to a man in his circumstances—and yes, I know, I've said far worse to Merrill, but that hardly absolves you of your own bad behaviour. But I digress."

He blows out a breath, rolls his shoulders, shifts on his feet. He keeps speaking, and his voice remains soft, almost monotonous. "Perhaps you _did_ see the similarities. But you wondered how Sebastian could be so cheerful and kind-hearted instead of like you: a petty, self-proclaimed mythomaniac and writer of trash who had no compunctions about invading others' privacy to get fodder for his stories, judging people's worth by how interesting they were as _characters_ for said stories, and blurting out their personal issues for all and sundry to hear even when they repeatedly _said_ they didn't want to talk about it." Varric jumps as if he's been shot, and Fenris raises an eyebrow at him. "What, did you think I'd forgotten how you treated Artur after I walked out on him? You blurted out what had happened in front of several strangers, to say nothing of Carver, and you _kept_ talking and joking about it even though you saw how humiliated Artur was. A fine way to treat your friend! Sebastian did nothing like that, wouldn't have dreamed of it. I wonder… did you see that, see how much better he was even if you won't admit it, see how he was everything you are not? Do you _resent_ him for it—is that why?"

Varric doesn't answer, instead curling in on himself, almost, with a scowl crossing his face. Fenris shakes his head again. He wonders if any of this is getting through to him. Probably not, but he still feels the compulsion to _try_. Artur would want him to, if only for Sebastian's sake, for the sake of the friend who he once said was a better friend to him than Varric ever was…

Ah. Of course.

"Or is it about Artur?" he murmurs, almost hisses, hand curling to a fist and clutching onto his sleeve. He raises an eyebrow, turns back, and shoots Varric a look of unbridled disdain, while Varric squirms in his seat, the picture of a man who knows the accusations against him are accurate but will not admit it. He cannot lie about this, however.

"I can imagine it was. It didn't take you long to proclaim yourself his best friend, did it, even though Artur was closer to _Aveline_ his first few years here and preferred to come to _her_ with his problems, not you. But even despite that, even despite how uncomfortable he was with you treating him like a character in a story and blissfully ignoring how much he _hated_ Kirkwall and didn't want to be a hero, you called yourself his best friend, and you deluded yourself into thinking he felt the same way. Then Sebastian showed up." Varric scowls, no doubt knowing what Fenris is thinking of, but Fenris elaborates, anyway. There's no chance Varric will learn if it's not all spelt out.

"We were all jealous of him, it's true. They were both kind, moral, and _incredibly pious_ men who fitted each other like a glove. They got so close so quickly that it made us all envious. And when Leandra died, Sebastian was the one who helped him through the worst of it all. _And_ he was the first to see Artur's unmasked face apart from myself. So let me guess what happened: even you could not deny they _loved_ each other, or that Sebastian was closer to him after one year than you were after four, and would always _be_ closer. You hated that, didn't you? Whereas Aveline and I got over our envy, you couldn't _bear_ that someone—especially _Sebastian _—should be closer to the one who you had claimed as your best friend, that he should cast you down from your throne—a throne that had never belonged to you. That you should be in second place as you had been to Bartrand… you couldn't tolerate it, could you? So you held onto your envy, and it rankled, didn't it? Spread and festered, like poison." He swallows and licks his lips briefly; his throat is becoming dry from all his talking.

But he keeps going. The pallor of and the look of dawning horror on Varric's face is encouragement enough. "You couldn't see that Artur had room for you even still—but even if you could, that wouldn't have been enough. You wanted to be _his_ best friend, and you wouldn't accept anything less. So you started tearing Sebastian down, acting as if you were in some sort of competition for Artur's affection. You did not realise that if there was such a competition, you had lost it long ago, and with every harsh word you spoke against Sebastian, every moment where you treated Artur more like the legend he was becoming rather than as a normal man, which was all he ever wanted to be, you only lessened your chances of 'winning'. And yet you never treated Carver or myself in such a manner even though we were also closer to him—which only proves my theory that you resented Sebastian for being so much better than yourself and for not being 'interesting' enough. So, how good a guess is that, Varric? Am I on the mark?"

Varric just stares at him, his face the colour of sour milk, his eyes filled with almost frenzied disbelief. His silence proves nothing, but after so many years of acquaintanceship and friendship, Fenris fancies he knows the dwarf pretty well, and his instincts tell him he's dead on the money, or something close to it.

"I thought so. I can extrapolate what happened from there. Even after we had all gone our separate ways, it still rankled that Artur loved _Sebastian_ best and not you. And you wouldn't, perhaps _couldn't_, let it go. So all of this: the silent treatment, not bothering to send him a letter about Artur's death or an invitation to the memorial service, making him a villain in _Hard in Hightown_, denying aid to Kirkwall because it came from Starkhaven… this is just because you lost an _imaginary competition_. Over a _decade_ ago. And even though Artur has been dead for three years, even though there's no longer any point, you're _still_ not over it!" Here, he finally breaks his quietness to let the words loose, as sharp as a whip, and Varric again jumps out of his skin. Once more, the silence tells him everything.

Fenris looks down his nose at him, affecting his best look of Tevinter contempt. "You are a pathetic, petty, small-minded little man," he says. "And I almost regret that I've spent so much time _talking_ to you about this. Most likely, none of this will penetrate your skull, and more's the pity. I liked you once, Varric. But if this is how you're going to treat Sebastian, and for such _petty_ reasons, then I want nothing more to do with you. Unlike you, I _managed_ to put my life back together after Artur died, and I owe it to his memory to keep _living_ it, no matter how much it still hurts, some days."

Once again, he turns away, and he leaves the letter on the desk, and he walks halfway to the door before stopping. "Just tell me one thing," he says. Time to haul out his last, best weapon. "Even if you ignore everything else. You know, for all the problems he had with you, and for all that he loved Sebastian better, Artur still loved you too. So tell me: is this what he would have wanted?"

Manipulative, oh, yes. But how else can he make Varric see?

He turns around in time to watch Varric's eyes rove here and there, looking up and down and to the sides as he searches for an answer. He carries on in this fashion for some time. But finally, in the silence, Fenris hears Varric suck in his breath, watches his eyes go wide, and he knows at once that the truth has at _last_ sunk in.

The quiet persists for some time more, and Varric appears to undergo some great internal struggle. Many times, he opens his mouth, then closes it, and he can't stop shaking his head or running his hands through his hair. "What happened to Hawke, I didn't want for him, none of us did," he says finally, one last protest. "It's…"

"Of course we didn't," Fenris says. For the first time, his tone is gentler. "I still miss him every day, Varric, even if it's easier now. I still dream sometimes that I'll wake up and he'll be beside me. And as much as I _hate_ that he left me and lied to me so he could go on his suicide run… I've tried to forgive him. The guilt, he… he was out of his mind." He sighs heavily and runs a hand over his face. Suffice it to say, forgiveness is easier said than done, even after three years. "But we need to let him go. Let his ghost find the peace he couldn't in life. And we need to do what he would have wanted us to do."

Varric buries his face in his hands. "I can't argue with that," he murmurs. "_Shit._ I… Fenris, I _wanted_ to be a good friend to him. Instead, I led him to his doom, and…" His voice cracks, and for all his anger with Varric, Fenris still looks pityingly on him now. _That_ is no lie.

"You had no way of knowing he would take it so badly," Fenris says. "None of us did. If I'd had any idea, I would never have let him leave. But it can't be helped now. You want to be a good friend to him and his memory, you'll read that letter, and you'll answer it." He also thinks if he wants to be a good friend now, then Varric should apologise to Sebastian, but he may be in no position to make such a suggestion when he's never apologised to Merrill. No need to be a complete hypocrite, after all.

"Yeah. Yeah, shit, okay." Varric reaches over with a shaking hand and grabs the letter. He breaks the seal. "You said it was important?"

Fenris nods sharply. "Yes, but don't expect me to recite the contents to you."

Varric exhales and pulls the letter out of the envelope. He flips it open and begins to read, and Fenris folds his arms and shifts his weight as he watches. Perhaps he should be pleased that he's _finally_ got through to Varric, but he knows well enough that such realisations as Varric has just had don't always stick, and this alone will not make up for all that has come before.

"'Elestren gave birth a few days ago,'" Varric murmurs, just loud enough for Fenris to hear him in the quiet. "'The baby's a boy, perfectly healthy. His name is _Arthur_, after our old friend—I can think of no greater way to repay him for all he did for me and for us all, no greater honour that I could give his memory.'" Varric's breath catches, and Fenris could swear he can see his eyes shining. His chest goes tight, and he wonders what Artur would have made of all this. Likely he would have judged himself unworthy of such an honour but also would have been touched, thanked Sebastian most fulsomely, and expressed his hope that the boy would live a happier life than he, and one untouched by magic. For a moment, Fenris can even hear the words he would speak, and his throat almost closes. He shuts his eyes.

_A great honour, but it should never have come to this,_ he thinks.

Varric continues. "'We plan to have him dedicated in the Chantry soon, and we will hold a ceremony to mark the event and his introduction to society. I know we aren't exactly close, Varric, but I am inviting you to come, anyway, just as I am inviting all our old friends. The ceremony will be on Justinian 17th, his namesake's birthday. Later than usual for a dedication, I know, but I wanted to give our friend another honour to go with the first, and for us all to be together on that day. I would greatly appreciate it if you could come. We can talk about the old days, honour Artur, and look to the future, all of us together. I feel after Arthur's birth that I can finally start over, and I hope you might feel something similar, though I don't mean to presume.

"'Please, let me know if you are coming. And I am sending Fenris with this message, so you can't get out of ignoring it this time. As I said, I know there is much between us and that you don't much like me, but I hope we can put that aside for one day, for the sake of Artur's memory. He loved us both, and I know he would want this. Regards, Sebastian.'"

With that, Varric puts down the letter and buries his face in his hands again. "_Arthur_," he murmurs. "Shit. I…"

"I don't think you can deny Sebastian the right to a bit of sentimentality," Fenris tells him. "For my part, I'd hoped that was what the boy's name would be."

"Yeah, I suppose you're right," Varric says, sounding as exhausted as Fenris has ever heard him. Another silence ensues, one in which he keeps his face in his hands and trembles, though Fenris cannot be sure if he is crying or not.

After a long moment, he asks, "Will you come, then?"

Varric looks up. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll come. I'll tell him," he says, rubbing his eyes. "And I suppose I should get his other letters out and see…"

Fenris' shoulders sag with relief. "It's about time. I hope you enjoy sifting through the backlog, though that's probably the least of what you deserve."

"You're probably right, again," Varric admits, pulling his chair closer to the desk and reaching over to grab his inkpot, quill, and a fresh sheet of parchment. "For what it's worth, Fenris, thanks. Not sure I agree with _everything_ you said, but I guess I needed to have some sense knocked into me."

"We all need it, now and then," Fenris says. "But I swear, if this doesn't stick—"

Varric raises his hands. "I hear you. I'll make sure it sticks."

"Good. Then I suppose I'll see you in Starkhaven." He turns to leave.

"You're not staying?"

Fenris stops and shakes his head, ruefully. "Too many memories, and these days, the wretchedness of this place is more than I can take. Besides, I need to be in Hasmal soon. I've been tipped off that there's going to be a great influx of slaves coming in from the Silent Plains. Somebody needs to make sure they get in alive." A hint of pride leaks into his voice as he speaks. As much as he would have preferred that Artur had lived, and they were still heading into the future together, spending his days helping other escaped slaves is—well, he doesn't think he's ever done anything worthier. Perhaps, after little Arthur Vael's dedication, he might even return to the Imperium and continue his operations there…

But that is an idea for another time.

"Right. Well, for what it's worth, elf, good luck." That is also no lie, and Fenris turns back once again to give Varric the polite nod that he may or may not deserve. Whether he's nodding to the man Varric is or the man he could be, he's not sure. After all, agreeing to write to Sebastian does not change that Varric is an incompetent, corrupt Viscount of one of the most wretched cities in Thedas, nor does it fix all his past mistakes—far from it. But—he reminds himself—it is a start. How long did it take _him_ to get his life back in order after he escaped from Danarius?

"You too, Varric," Fenris says, with one last glance back at his old friend, perhaps no longer a friend, but who could be one again if his realisation sticks. Artur would want that, and that alone is practically a guarantee of Varric improving. Maybe the man's morality should not be so tied to what Artur would have wanted, but he'll take what he can get.

Then he leaves.

* * *

After the ceremony, Sebastian and Varric talk like old friends, and Varric—rather awkwardly and in a not especially eloquent fashion—extends his apologies for all that has come before. Sebastian smiles through the dark shadows under his eyes and accepts it, and they shake hands on it like civilised men.

In the meantime, Arthur Vael is passed around their circle of friends. Merrill squeals over the boy, as expected, and recites a Dalish blessing for a new child. Isabela grins as she holds him and promises to teach him dirty limericks and all the tricks she knows when he's older, much to his mother's alarm and his father's amusement. If she happens to be a little misty-eyed, they all pretend not to notice. Aveline also grins and laughs, and she introduces him to her and Donnic's children and tells him he couldn't have a better name, and that he should be proud of his namesake. Carver is also suspiciously misty-eyed and speaks in a rather thick voice, but he's grinning too, and says he'll show him how to fight one day, and tell him all the stories of his namesake that nobody else has ever found out—even Varric (much to Varric's consternation). While he turns away to wipe his eyes, Fenris strokes his hair and, uncertain of what to say, tells the boy he's glad to meet him; Arthur gurgles and flails a hand in the air, perhaps aiming for his markings. Varric, coming last, promises to tell him the best bedtime stories a boy could ask for and make sure he knows just how great a man his namesake was, then passes the boy back to Sebastian with no trouble.

Listening to the talk afterwards, watching Sebastian and his wife struggle with the boy as he suddenly starts squalling, Fenris imagines Artur reciting a blessing and swearing to help him find his way through the confusion and insanity that is life. "_But don't let me be the be-all and end-all. Whatever your name is, you're your own man, with your own life, to live as you choose. Let your conscience and the law guide you. But let me give you some words that were given to me a long time ago, that I never heeded though I probably should have. If you follow these words—if they should ever save you from my fate—then that can be my legacy. The words: 'Regret is something that I know well. Take care not to cling to it, to hold it so close that it poisons your soul. When the time comes for your regrets… remember me.'"_

Good words, he realises in hindsight, and watching Arthur with his parents now, wishing that Artur could have been here to say them, Fenris sighs with renewed grief and closes his eyes for a moment. He spares Carver a glance and knows from the tension on his face he misses his brother just as much.

Yet, watching Arthur, watching the reconciliation between Sebastian and Varric, rejoicing in the togetherness of their little group, such as it hasn't been for years, and perceiving the future open before him at last, Fenris feels, for the first time since he got word of Artur's loss, entirely content.


End file.
